My father's first job in America was washing dishes
In an upscale suburban restaurant he hated so much

He'd bring the food home and never touch it
Would rather go hungry than live on that food

My mother and I stayed up waiting for him
Every night like a ritual—school night, Saturday

Night, we stayed up—distracting ourselves by
Telling Bulgarian folktales, dancing to music

Videos, anything to keep from falling asleep, anything
Not to miss him walk through that door, his eyes

Bloodshot, a wet ring around his shirt, exhausted
And utterly himself, my father. My kiss

On his cheek the only thing I knew would help him
Go back there, and return to us again the next night